


Ghosts In My Mind

by wishingonly (wendlaswound)



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: I suppose, Post-Canon, Sort of a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 13:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendlaswound/pseuds/wishingonly
Summary: Pretentious, angsty internal monologue. Just how Melchi would like it.





	Ghosts In My Mind

            Melchior hadn’t slept in weeks.

            He wouldn’t let his eyes close even when the world tried to force them shut, when he could only see dark purple and black, when everything before him went dim. The few times the night succeeded in pulling him under, he woke soon after, lashing in his sheets, desperate for an escape from the freedom he lived in. His thoughts wouldn’t rest until the morning, and then the light kept him awake instead.

            But he didn’t need sleep, anyway. Sleep kept him from work. It kept him from his life, his precious life that he had promised to cherish even after his parents disowned him, his best friends died, and his other friends seemed to be scared of him, terrified and startled with what he had become.

            It was for the best that they kept their distance.

            Because Melchior was only a ghost walking the earth now, utterly lost but desperate for somewhere to go. That was another reason he didn’t sleep. Because dreams were where he met his other ghosts, the ones that haunted him though he only ever loved them.

            His mind had been too much of a mess, too much of a burden going back and forth between worlds. One he loved, but it disintegrated his soul, his hands, night after night, every time he went there, leaving bits of his sanity behind. And the other despised him, left him in a heap of bones on the ground whenever he begged it for forgiveness.

            Could he even forgive _himself_?

            In either place, he was worn down, no longer a boy with a crooked smile but an old man with wrinkly hands that had once been able to hold his beloved, once been able to write adventures and romances and whims of his mind. Now they were only bruised, broken at the joints, lumps of flesh that had once had a purpose.

            It was the despair of growing old that plagued him. There seemed to be no refuge.

            But he went on. Because he had to. Because he promised on his friends' graves. Their _graves._

            God, how could he be so selfish?! Why was he weeping for himself, when there were so many other reasons to weep, so many others that deserved his tears more than himself.

            He was only a whimper, a disgrace, a touch of static. There was nothing human in him anymore. Why wasn’t he dead?

            Melchior asked this of himself over and over and over until he knew no other words. No one showed him any concern, he’d been absent from them for too long now.

            _Why aren’t you dead?_

_Why aren’t you dead?_

_Why aren’t you dead?_

_Why them and not you?_

_Why aren’t you dead?_

_Why aren’t you dead?_

_Why…?_

            He couldn’t stay awake one more moment to express his surprise at falling asleep. But he welcomed it as he welcomed his old friends when they appeared in his vision, knowing he’d only leave with another scar.

            Maybe when he woke his mind would be clearer.


End file.
